Hope
by Nephthys Moon
Summary: A small series of intertwining stories focusing on Oliver Wood post-DH and centering on the theme of Hope.
1. Hope Like Smoke

**Title**: Hope Like Smoke  
**Summary**: Oliver was always one to take action, no matter where he was. But there was always one girl who could tie him in knots.  
**Rating**: PG  
**Author's Notes**: Written for the LJ community hprareexchange, for Nyruserra. It is the first in the 'Hope' series and the 'canon' for all the others in it.

It was all he could do to keep going when he saw the next body he had to lift: Colin Creevey. He faced Neville Longbottom, who shouldn't have looked as surprised as he did; they'd carried so many of their former classmates inside already; but Colin was just a wee scrap of a boy. Oliver blinked, hard. He'd been too young to die.

Oliver shook off the thought. He had to. It was the only way he could keep up the grisly task in the face of all the horrors he'd witnessed in the course of the past hours. Death and destruction were all around him, and he had to go on. _Had to._ There was no other way. He looked at Neville, whose face was now set in hard lines.

"Oi, Longbottom, you grab the feet," Oliver suggested, not unkindly, but leaving no room for argument. Gently, oh, so gently, he lifted the shoulders of the child, cringing as the head lolled backwards on its limp neck. He shuddered. He had faith in Potter, he did, but he didn't see how this could possibly be working. They'd lost so many already.

He thought back to the days when he'd been playing for the reserve team; life had been blissful, free of worry. If there was a war, it didn't affect him. His fists clenched on the arm he was carrying as he remembered Apparating just in time to escape the raid the Death Eaters had sprung upon the changing room. That match would have decided his career. He was being scouted that day; they were going to let him on the National team, he knew it.

But Quidditch, like so many other things, had become a part of his past now. They were to the steps leading to the massive doors of the castle now, and as they walked up them, Oliver thought he saw a tear in Neville's eye.

"You know what? I can manage him alone, Neville," he said, and he lifted the frail body out of Neville's hands, hoisting it into a fireman's carry as he trudged the familiar path to the Great Hall. He braced himself as he stepped into that room that had once been the seat of so many of his best memories, but would forever be haunted for him by the rows of bodies laid out on the floor. Professor Lupin, and good old Fred Weasley – Oliver choked back tears. There was no time for them now; perhaps there wouldn't be time for them later either, but he'd be damned if he would stand here and sob for those who lost their lives fighting for their freedom.

No, he wouldn't cry, he decided, but he would take a moment to regain his composure. Surely he deserved that much. He stepped into a shadowy alcove outside the Great Hall and thought, with no little trepidation, of the past year.

After the raid, he'd been forced into hiding, of course. His family might be Pure-blooded, but they were Blood Traitors in the eyes of the Death Eaters; The Woods were most known (aside from a fanatical love of Quidditch) for harbouring fugitives of the Death Eaters in the first war against the Dark Lord. His father had died to that end; his mother had been murdered by a raid on their home shortly after the invasion of his training camp. He wondered, guiltily, if he had been the cause for that attack, and how many of his teammates had died because of it.

He'd hidden at the Burrow for a time, and when that became too dangerous, he'd sheltered in Shell Cottage with Bill and Fleur Weasley. It was there, hidden from prying eyes, that he'd come to tire of skulking about, living in terror that he might be next. As those around him fought and died, he'd been over-taken by the urge to do something, _anything_ to strike out against those who had destroyed his family.

As he stood in the recess, he saw something that gave his bruised heart another pang. It was her. She stood there, her brown hair falling in riotous curls around her face, looking for all the world like a lost child. She'd come out of the Great Hall in a hurry, as though she could no longer stand to be in there with her fallen comrades, but as he studied her face, a task that was achingly painful and familiar to him, he realised her eyes were darting to and fro. She was looking for someone.

For one wild moment, he imagined she was looking for him; she'd seen him leave and was going to offer him the comfort that no one else could, the comfort he wanted from no one but her. But it wasn't so. Almost as soon as the hope flared in his breast it was squelched by the sight of Ron Weasley, hurrying after her.

"Do you see him?" he asked her in an urgent whisper Oliver had to strain to hear. She merely shook her head and turned into his arms, which wrapped around her in a way that Oliver knew meant more than friendship. The two broke apart, almost shamefully, and turned to continue their search.

It must be Potter they were looking for, he thought. He hadn't seen the boy for a bit either, come to think of it. But thoughts of what and who the couple was looking for didn't distract him for long; the pang in his chest was more insistent now.

For years he'd watched her; oh, she'd never known it, of course, but he had been fascinated by her intelligent eyes and bushy hair from the moment she'd sat upon the stool in her first year, waiting to be Sorted. The intense concentration on her face as she'd scrunched it up that night had amused him, and as he'd watched her over the course of the year, the amusement became admiration.

It must have been hard for the girl, to be practically a walking textbook in a school of people who learned just what they needed to learn to get by; he'd often wondered why she'd not been Sorted into Ravenclaw, but only at first. In the weeks that followed, while he sat in a darkened corner with his model pitch and thought desperately of new strategies to try to beat the Slytherins with, she'd shown an incredible amount of poise and courage in the common room. He'd begun to admire the little spitfire then. Oh, it was nothing at all like what he'd begun to feel for her as she got older, but it was a respect that he reserved for only the finest players on the Pitch.

There was a fire in the lass, and he had to admire the way she'd wrapped Potter and Weasley around her finger. It was a running joke amongst the older students that the two boys didn't know when they'd well and truly been had by the girl. She'd had them under control, and probably saved their lives on more than one occasion, if the rumours were true; and given the current state of things, he gathered that most of the rumours had been.

It wasn't until he'd seen her at the Quidditch World Cup, after he'd finished with Hogwarts and started playing for Puddlemere, that he'd really noticed her as more than an amusing, fiery lass with a good head on her shoulders. She'd never light a fire in most men's blood, he knew; she was too plain, too outspoken, too damn _smart_ for that. But he clearly recalled looking at her form in her sweater, recalling the sweet curves that were just beginning to develop into womanhood. Of course, he'd felt like a heel as soon as he realised what he was doing. Ogling a schoolgirl! He was ashamed of himself, and talked animatedly to Potter, all the while, in his youthful eagerness, hoping she'd hear and be impressed.

She hadn't, it was clear, and he'd gone back to his tent feeling somewhat dejected. He chuckled ruefully to himself as he recalled a worn leather book that he'd hidden in the bottom of his battered bag, the bag he'd carried with him from place to place over the intervening years. The book contained various newspaper clippings, including those written by the vicious Rita Skeeter, as well as some truly horrid sketches he'd attempted from memory. He shook his head and made to step out of the alcove when the pair reappeared outside the door to the Great Hall.

"I can't find him, Ron." Her voice was frantic. The red-haired Weasley girl was there, too, Oliver realised.

"He's gone alone," Ginny, he thought her name was, whispered quietly. For a second Oliver thought Weasley was going to slap his younger sister and force him out of his hiding place, but he lowered his hand.

"He wouldn't, Ginny; you don't understand," he said grimly, looking to Hermione for reassurance, which she seemed unable to give.

"He – he might have," she stammered, helplessly, and as Oliver saw the hope and light fade from her face, he had to look away. He saw the ruined stone floor of the Entrance Hall, the marble staircase crumbling in places, and doors blasted off their hinges. And he recalled everything he knew of Potter, and was forced to agree with the sprite who'd won his heart when she was just eleven, though she'd never know; Potter might just have gone into those woods alone – and if he had, he would die out there. What hope Oliver had left for the fate of the world disappeared as though it were no more than smoke in the wind.

"He did," Ginny stated firmly, and the other two looked at her as though she were the only anchor they had left, and Oliver could see their hopes drift out of their eyes.

And then came the voice.

"Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone."

Oliver knew then that nothing he'd done for the past two years had mattered. He didn't believe Voldemort – Harry would never run. Oliver hadn't known him well, but he knew that Harry was a true Gryffindor, and a Gryffindor would never run away.

The next events were jumbled in Oliver's mind. Voldemort was still speaking, and people were rushing to the open doorway to see if it was true, if Harry was really dead. He heard the horrified scream of McGonagall, and the voices of the three he'd been watching, all shouting denials and he knew it must be so. He rushed to join the others, but there was some confusion. He saw Harry lying there in Hagrid's arms, saw Neville defy Voldemort, murder the bloody snake of all things, and suddenly, it was a madhouse again.

Hagrid was shouting for Harry, Harry seemed to be missing. Before he could process this, Oliver found himself locked in a duel with a masked Death Eater, narrowly dodging curses. He heard Molly Weasley shouting at Bellatrix Lestrange, and he had to stifle his laughter to concentrate on the task at hand, when all he really wanted to do was congratulate the old bird – he'd never have imagined she'd had it in her.

In between his frantic parries against his opponent, who was still masked, he searched for the bushy brown hair he knew so well, and saw Bellatrix fall. Oliver could never tell afterwards what exactly happened. He knew that Harry suddenly appeared, and that Harry and Voldemort faced off. And he saw Voldemort fall, and he triumphed with the rest of them afterwards, until a sight met his eyes that caused his heart, if not to break, then to crack, at least a little: Hermione and Ron, walking out of the Great Hall, Hermione glancing around as if to make sure that she wasn't being watched.

He gulped. She'd caught his eye, and he suddenly realised what a prat he must look, mooning after her like some kind of lovesick cow, and he tried to divert his eyes, but the look she gave him was of such compassion, such understanding, that he could do nothing but smile brightly at her. She looked taken aback, and she continued to peer over her shoulder at him until she turned the corner and was lost from sight.

Oliver picked up the bottle of butterbeer some kind House Elf had put in front of him and took a grateful swig. As he swallowed that first bit, drinking a silent toast to Fred Weasley, he acknowledged to himself that there were far worse things than unrequited love.

And besides, if he couldn't get the girl, there was always Quidditch.

-----------  
Parts of this fanfic were directly quoted from _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_.


	2. Hope, I Understand

**Title**: Hope, I Understand  
**Summary**: An overheard conversation leads to a night of confessions.  
**Rating**: PG  
**Author's Notes**: Written for MNFF's group SPEW, for the Love Notes project, Feb 2008. Pairing: Oliver/Hermione, Prompt: There's nothing wrong with being hesitant. This is the second in the 'Hope' series.

"Patience is a virtue."

Oliver Wood bit back a chuckle. How very right that his most straight-laced aunt's favorite phrase should come out of the mouth of the prissiest swot to attend Hogwarts since the old lady herself. Of course, that same aunt was the one who laughed the hardest when he sassed her, something he doubted he'd be able to get away with in regards to this female.

"Oh, honestly, Ronald. If you'd just let me read this in peace we could have been finished ten minutes ago!"

It was a bit harder this time to keep from laughing. If the library wasn't so decidedly quiet, he might have been able to let loose the snort that seemed determined to escape him, but as he was only one shelf away from the studious couple, he knew he couldn't.

In the year since he'd last seen them, sneaking quietly out of the Great Hall after Voldemort's death, he'd managed to convince himself that the part of him that was fascinated by the bushy-haired girl was gone. Idle fantasy, he'd learned two months ago – as were so many of his thoughts pertaining to her. At the moment, he was ostensibly in the library to return _Quidditch Through the Ages_, but in reality it was the promise of her presence that drew him, as usual, to her favoured corner, where (if he were very lucky) she might even look up from her books with a smile and a word of greeting as he walked past. He really was making a cake of himself, he thought disgustedly.

Her voice had dropped an octave, and he found himself leaning to catch her words as she rang a whispered peal over Weasley's head. "...not like you come here to study anyway...never did take anything seriously..."

Oliver grinned. He heard Weasley slam his books down and throw them hastily in his bag. Oliver chanced a look around the corner at her usual table, where she was looking up at her boyfriend with exasperation and just a hint of amusement, as if she found his behaviour absurdly funny – and, he supposed she must, for this was at least the fifth time Weasley had done something of the like in the past two months. His red hair was visible as he walked towards the door, and his parting shot was something so completely ridiculous that Oliver couldn't help but give voice to his laughter at last.

She turned immediately towards him, a small smile tilting the corners of her mouth ever so slightly upwards, revealing an altogether bewitching dimple. She gestured for Oliver to take a seat, and he gratefully complied, flopping casually into the chair across from her.

"Teaspoon?" he asked, still fighting back chuckles. At the incredulous tone in his voice, she tilted her head back and joined him, her laughter deep and throaty. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Why did he have to find her so enticing, he wondered for perhaps the hundredth time. It wasn't that she was pretty – oh, she wasn't ugly, either, just very plain. The only remarkable thing about her was really her hair, sticking out in every direction in a bushy mess.

"It's a long story, Wood," Hermione replied when she had finished laughing at his expression. He was wiping the tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes when she she looked up. "What brings you here tonight?"

"Returning this," he lied, holding out the thick book for her perusal.

"_Quidditch Through the Ages_?" she queried. "Wood, that is at least the fourth time you've read that since we all returned here two months ago!"

"Keeping tabs on my reading material, are you?" He cocked an eyebrow up, fascinated by the faint blush that stained her cheeks at the question.

"Of course not," she said sternly. "I just remember at least three other occasions where you've come to sit down and had that book in hand."

"You wound me, lass," he mocked. "Here I thought you'd been keeping your eyes on my charming smile and broad shoulders instead of the books I bring with me." He propped his head in his hand and looked at her, lazily taking in the clearness of her skin with its light brown tones.

"Oh, you!" she sighed exasperatedly. "Between you and Seamus there is enough blarney to populate all of Ireland!"

_Ireland?_ "Lass, you do know I'm not from Ireland, right?" His breath caught. Was she really comparing him to that wimpy child?

"Of course I know you're not, Wood! Heavens, I should hope you have more respect for my intelligence than that!" She sounded slightly miffed.

"Aye, lass, I've nothing but respect for that intelligence of yours. So, tell me - what has the git done this time?" He picked his head up and looked at her in what he hoped was a compassionate and friendly manner, pushing down the thoughts of tearing Weasley limb from limb when a small tear caught in her eyelashes.

"Oh, the usual. He seems to think that since school isn't yet in session that studying isn't necessary - he keeps trying to get me to sneak off with him," she sighed unhappily, ducking her head with obvious embarrassment.

Oliver fought the image of the two of them entwined in Weasley's bedsheets; Weasley's hands touching the enticing curve of her hip, Hermione's fevered response - he cut the thought off cold.

"Ah, lass, you'll have to forgive him. At his age, he's a slave to his baser instincts. Someday he'll be growing up and appreciate that there is more than bedsport with a bonny lass like yourself." He forced the words to sound comforting when all he wanted to do was find Weasley and curse him to smithereens.

To his dismay, his girl broke into quiet sobs. "Oh, if it were only that, Oliver." He started at her unprecedented use of his given name and filed the memory of her voice caressing it for later perusal, focusing instead on the words that had come before it.

"What do you mean, Hermione," he asked her seriously.

"He doesn't think of me _that_ way. He doesn't want to sneak off to the nearest empty classroom, he wants to sneak down to the kitchens for more food!" she grumbled, putting her head in her hands. Her posture was that of such despair that he couldn't even bring himself to smile at this admission of trouble in the paradise of her world.

"Shh, lass. Shh." He got up and came around the table to sit beside her, putting an arm around the back of her chair. He felt her stiffen up and wondered if he'd done something wrong, but she turned and buried her face in his chest. He was suddenly struck by the realisation that the library probably was not the best place for her to have a breakdown like this. He placed a finger under her chin and felt his insides quiver with the sight of the tears streaming down her cheeks.

"C'mon, lass, let's gather your books. You don't want to be doing this here, I'd wager. We'll go someplace quiet and you can tell Uncle Ollie all about it." Saying this, he gathered up her books and put them in her bag, slinging it over his shoulder. When he had finished, he reached out a hand to her and noticed the surprise in her eyes.

"Why are you being so nice about this?" she asked slowly.

"Have you got anyone else? Your only female friend is his own sister, and I'm not thinking she'd take too kindly to you saying this to her, and Potter doesn't really seem the type to understand what would be wrong with wanting to sneak out for food instead of a little old-fashioned snogging," he explained, hoping that she would buy his reasoning, that she wouldn't see that he was so desperate for her notice that he'd put himself in the position of relationship counselor, helping to solve her problems with a boy he was strongly suspecting he might have to kill someday.

"You're right, of course - it just - I don't want your pity, Wood," she said shortly.

_And now we're back to 'Wood' again_, he sighed to himself. Aloud he said only, "It isn't pity, lass. Now come." He grabbed her hand and pulled her up, tucking her under his arm as he guided her out of the library. The dorms seemed a bad idea - Weasley might be in there - and he was fairly certain that if he took her to his own room he wouldn't be able to hide his intentions, so he led her to a quiet classroom instead.

He set her bag on the floor and guided her to a chair, wondering if he ought to conjure her something a bit more comfortable.

"I don't even know where to begin anymore," she sighed heavily, the threat of tears still in her voice.

He sat down in a chair next to her and covered the hand on the table with his own. "Why not tell me how the two of you ended up together."

She laughed a little at that and turned her brown eyes towards the window. "It was coming on for a long time, though he was too thick to realise it, of course. And even though I knew it was, I kept holding myself back, waiting for something. I guess, in retrospect, I was waiting for a sign that he had grown up enough to understand what I wanted from him." Another heavy sigh followed her words and she turned back towards him.

"I guess, when he finally started acting like he was mature enough, I just rushed headlong into things, not really realising that his only experience with girls was Lavender Brown. If I wanted to do something that resembled a normal date and didn't include hanging out with Harry and Ginny, he would freak out on me, afraid I'd start acting like Lavender, I guess. I can't remember the last time we kissed except for perfunctory good-nights in the common room."

Oliver's eyes were round. How could Weasley have this treasure and not worship the very ground she walked upon? "You mean to tell me that the lad hasn't even the balls to properly kiss you?" At her nod, he lost a little of the control he'd been struggling with since he'd first heard the couple in the library. "Bluidy git! You haven't done anything else with him, have you?" he demanded.

"Of course not!" Hermione snapped, sounding more like herself. "I'm not sure it would matter even if I tried - he'd likely only grumble about wanting to play Quidditch or grab a snack."

"You've not even tried," he asked incredulously.

"There's nothing wrong with being hesitant!" she insisted. Oliver laughed. Another of Aunt Henny's favorite phrases.

"Nay, lass, nothing wrong with hesitating to do something that will probably be a useless endeavour on your part anyway, but a great deal wrong with it when it is stopping you from doing what you need to," he offered.

"What do you mean?" she demanded sharply, obviously not liking his tone.

"How old is he now? Nineteen?" At her nod, he continued. "And he's had you in his arms for a year and never told you how lovely you are?" He looked down at her. She might not fit the world's idea of beauty, of course - even he was not yet in so deep that he couldn't see that - but she was certainly his ideal.

"But I'm not," she whispered. "Maybe if I were he would want me, but I'm not."

"You're a beautiful lass, but we'll get to that in a moment. Hermione, you can't keep wasting your life on someone who doesn't deserve you!"

"I know that, Oliver! You think I don't? But what am I supposed to do? My family doesn't want me and Harry lives with the Weasleys - hell, so do I! Where am I supposed to go?" she shouted.

"Hell, lass, if that is all that is holding you back, you can stay at my flat during school breaks - I'm hardly there anyway," he offered immediately. Part of his brain was screaming, 'YES, get her to the flat and keep her there!'.

She blinked at his vehemence. "You'd do that? Let me stay with you until I finished school and got a job?"

"Merlin, yes. You haven't got anyone else. We're friends, after a fashion, and I'm sure we'd rub on fine together when I was home, and you'd have the place to yourself when I wasn't," he said. "Is that really why you stay with him? You haven't got anyone else?"

"No. I do love him, but he's just - he'll never grow up, not really, and I guess I've always known that. I've just been staying on out of hope." Her voice was dejected.

"Aye, lass, hope, I understand," he whispered, drawing her back to his chest and patting her back comfortingly. She lay there against his chest, limp and drained of emotions.

"I'll think about it," she murmured, gently pushing herself away and standing up. As she shouldered her bag, he knew she meant more than just his offer of a place to stay until she got her feet underneath her.

Looking him in the eye, a faint blush stained her cheeks, and seeing it made his heart swell. "You do that," he said, dropping a brotherly kiss on the top of her head. When she had gone, he sat alone in the dark classroom, thinking of their conversation and his next moves. While he would never try to take her from Weasley if she were happy, it was painfully clear that she wasn't, and when it all fell apart, as it was bound to, he wanted to make sure he was the one she turned to, the friend she could count on.

He would be friends first and forever, if that was what she needed - after all, as she and Aunt Henny were both fond of saying, there is nothing wrong with being hesitant, and his patience would pay off. He knew it would.


	3. Hope Is a Lying Bitch

**Title**: Hope is a Lying Bitch  
**Summary**: When it seems that patience and hope have finally paid off for Oliver, something goes wrong.  
**Rating**: PG-13 for title  
**Author's Notes**: I read the expression 'hope is a lying bitch' in an _Anita Blake_ novel and fell in love with it. For months I've wanted to use it as a theme or a title or SOMETHING in a story, and this opportunity presented itself, for which I am eternally grateful. This is the third in the 'Hope' series.

Oliver wisely kept his distance from Hermione for some months, waiting for her to make her decision, but Christmas came and went with no word from her, and he fell back into his old habits of haunting the library. It seemed Hermione was aware that he was doing so, for if he appeared, she was walking out the door, and of course he'd look like a fool if he were to follow her out.

He knew she'd be uncomfortable after breaking down in front of him, but he didn't expect her to go quite so far to avoid him. He didn't want to force the issue, of course, but he was desperate to get back on friendly footing with her. In his estimation, pretending as if the conversation had never happened would be the best way to proceed, and he spent hours in his room strategising how to go about it. He laughed a bit to himself, that one girl had him in such knots that he was planning their next encounter as carefully as if it were a match he intended to win.

He got up with the sun one bright Saturday morning and made his way quickly to the library, where he hid in the darkest corner he could find that had a clear view of the entrance. He waited in the corner, picking up the first book he saw and absentmindedly turning the pages as he watched the door. His patience was rewarded just as he was thinking he'd head down to the Great Hall for lunch; she walked in quickly, glancing around in a distracted manner before heading straight for his corner.

_Oh, bullocks!_ he thought. She started in surprise when she noticed him, but it was clear she knew she couldn't retreat.

"_Hogwarts, a History?_ she queried as she assembled her books on the table, taking a seat across from him. He looked down at the slightly battered tome in his hands and stifled a groan.

"Ah, lass, so now we're back to you questioning my reading material, are we?" he asked with a chuckle. She muttered something under her breath, which sounded suspiciously like 'Better your reading material than your wit,' but he decided to ignore that.

"How goes your studies?" He decided to change the subject, giving her less time to think of an excuse to vacate the premises.

"Argh! Wood, I might have to strangle Professor Slughorn!" she cried. This declaration caught him somewhat off-guard, as he'd always thought she enjoyed schoolwork more than anything else in the world, excepting, perhaps a late night cup of cocoa that Winky would sometimes bring her when she pulled yet another all-nighter in the common room.

"I suggest poisoning his mead instead, lass; you're less likely to get caught," he joked, but the stricken look on her face made him realize instantly that he'd said something wrong. "What?"

"It's just – you couldn't possibly know of course – you were gone long before that happened – but still…" she trailed off, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth in what had to be the most endearing way possible.

"Someone actually poisoned his mead?" Oliver asked incredulously.

"It wasn't mead – I think it was elf-made wine – and it wasn't for him." She must have seen his confusion, for she took a deep breath and continued in a calmer, more Hermione-ish way. "It was our sixth year, and Harry had been given some chocolates spiked with a love potion. He never ate them, but they fell out of his trunk when he was getting Ron's birthday present out. Ron thought they were for him and ate the whole box. He was apparently daft with love over a saucy little twit named Romilda Vane, and Harry took him to Slughorn's office for an antidote. When he came to his senses, Slughorn offered him a birthday drink. They didn't know it at the time, but Malfoy had poisoned the bottle, since it was supposed to be a Christmas present for Dumbledore. Ron drank it – and he nearly died…" her voice grew faint, and Oliver was aware that she was no longer seeing him. She was lost in memories of how Weasley must have looked, half-dead of poison in the Hospital Wing. Something in her voice told him that this event had been a turning point for them.

"I'm sorry. You're right; I didn't know," he said, trying to bring her attention round to him again.

"No, it's alright. You couldn't possibly have done. It just – I meant to not talk about Ron to you anymore," she muttered. "You were very kind to me that one night, and I've been a horrid friend to be so distant with you lately because I was embarrassed."

"It's fine, really, lass," he murmured, trying to catch her eye, but she was looking determinedly at the table, a faint blush staining her cheeks.

"I just don't want you to have a worse opinion of him than you must have already because…" she looked up suddenly, and the intensity in her brown eyes nearly knocked him backwards. She took a deep breath and finished. "Because I've been thinking a lot about what we talked about, and you're right. I know I've been dreadful lately, and I understand if you have changed your mind – in fact, I rather expect you have, and that's fine, too, of course – but I thought I'd let you know first, since you were so understanding – and you needn't feel obligated, because I'll be fine." She looked up at him hopelessly, and it was clear by the look on her face that whatever she was trying to say, she was not fine with it, nor would she be anytime soon.

"Hermione," he began, clearing his throat. It was the first time he'd ever called her by her first name in her presence, and he was painfully aware of it. "I've not changed my mind about anything we talked about, then or any other night. So, come, sit her next to Uncle Ollie and tell him what's wrong." He pulled the chair on his right away from the table and patted the seat comfortingly, hoping that whatever it was she was trying to say would be over with soon.

She nodded and walked around the table, meekly sitting down. She continued to bite on her lower lip, and Oliver wanted nothing more than to cover the abused skin with soothing kisses. When she'd settled herself into the chair, she turned her face up towards his own, and he saw the faint sparkle of tears on her lashes. He wrapped his arm about her as he had before, and tucked her head up underneath his own, resting his chin on her hair.

"Ach, lass, dinna fash yersel' sae," he murmured into her hair, unaware that he'd slipped into the rougher speech of his native land.

Hermione laughed a bit. "I can hear your voice rumbling in your chest," she said softly, burrowing her face into his collar.

"Now, what's all this fuss about?" He whispered the words into her hair, inhaling the sweet scent of whatever shampoo she used and trying to tamp down his body's response to having her nestled against him. _She's coming to you as a friend, you bloody ass! She trusts you!_

"I'm going to break up with Ron," she said quietly. "I'm sure there will be a fuss at the Burrow, and I'll have to find somewhere to live – perhaps I can stay on here. I just can't do it anymore."

"I told you, lass, you're welcome to my flat. It's not much, only one bedroom, but you can have it. I'll take the sofa when I'm home, which I don't expect to be often. Training camp starts up again next week, and I've been invited to rejoin my team. It'll be a year or so before we're ready to have a league again, so I'll be away most of the time." He held his breath, positive she was going to refuse.

"You really mean that, don't you?" she didn't wait for his response. "I know I shouldn't – oh, the fuss everyone is going to make about it – but – okay. If you're really serious, then I accept your offer."

His heart felt like it would burst. She was moving into his home. _Friends, remember?_ called a little voice in the back of his head, but he disregarded it, tightening his arms around her small frame briefly.

"We'll get you settled in over your Easter holidays," he said confidently, giving her no room to back out. She nodded. He could tell she was a bit dazed, and he didn't want to push his luck, but a grin broke over his face at the prospect of her in his home, puttering around his tiny flat. She looked up and caught it and smiled back.

"Thank you," she said seriously, leaning over to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. "If it hadn't been for you, 'Uncle Ollie', I might not have had the courage to do this. I promise not to be a bother to you, but I have to tell you how much it means to me to have a friend like you." Her faced turned a pretty pink, and Oliver gave into the urge to drop a kiss on the top of her head. Her gasp delighted him, until he heard the whispered word leave her mouth, and he looked up. Standing not ten feet from them was Ron Weasley, a look of horror, anger and dejection on his face. His girl pulled herself away and faced her boyfriend confidently. Oliver slipped his wand out of his pocket and kept his hand under the table, just in case it was needed, and tried to be as unobtrusive as possible as Weasley shuffled over towards them.

"Krum, McLaggen and now Wood? Rita Skeeter was right about you," he spat.

"Ronald, don't be ridiculous!" she snapped. Oliver relaxed. Perhaps she'd hex him on her own.

"I'm not being ridiculous, Hermione. I came in here to see if you wanted to get lunch with me, since you hardly eat anymore, and find you in his lap _kissing_ him! How am I being ridiculous?" His voice was controlled, but the anger was still threaded through each word.

"I kissed his cheek, Ron, because he's my friend and he's helped me – I've done the same to Harry and you never objected," she pointed out, her hands in tightly-clenched fists at her side.

"That's because it's _Harry_, for Merlin's sake! Besides, you weren't sitting on Harry's lap," he shot.

"I wasn't in Oliver's lap, either, I was in my own chair and he was comforting me," she continued calmly, though Oliver could see her knuckles were turning white.

"Oh, comforting, eh? Is that what it's called now when you try to steal another bloke's girl?" Ron turned his attack to Oliver, clearly accepting the futility of trying to outwit Hermione.

"Aye, comfort – what a real man does to a wee lass when she's clearly upset because her pig-headed boyfriend is being daft," Oliver responded mildly, his fist tightening on his wand. He knew he was going to be painted blacker than You-Know-Who himself when people found out that Hermione was living in his flat, but he really hadn't been prepared for this eventuality. The entire Wizarding world was going to think he was the reason the second-favorite couple of the century had broken up. 

"Wood, it's alright. Just let me handle this," Hermione said, not taking her eyes of Ron.

"Yeah, Wood, mind your own business," Ron snarled at him, and Oliver had to drop his wand into his lap before he picked it up and cursed the bloody git into the next life.

"Ron, this has absolutely nothing to do with Oliver. Why don't we go somewhere quiet where we can talk for a few minutes," she reasoned.

"It has everything to do with him, Hermione! I caught you kissing him, remember?" His voice was full of contempt.

"Ronald Weasley, do you really want me to do this in front of an audience?" It seemed that Hermione's tremulous hold on her control had finally snapped. Oliver felt like applauding until he saw Weasley's face. In the space of a heartbeat, it had gone from belligerent and accusing to resigned and miserable.

Shaking his head and staring at his feet, he turned around to leave. "It's alright, Hermione. I was never good enough for you anyway, so it's really okay." He shuffled out of the room, and Oliver turned his eyes back to the face he loved so well, expecting a sigh of relief or something similar. What he saw instead had him floored. She was crying, gasping and sobbing and his heart melted at the sight.

"I have to go," she whispered between sobs and chased after her boyfriend.

Oliver sat, dumbfounded, after she left, staring at the scattered books and assignments she'd left on the table.


	4. Hope Floats

**T****itle**: Hope Floats  
**Summary**: Oliver comes home to find someone he didn't expect.  
**Rating**: PG  
**Author's Notes**: I have been waiting to put this one up for WEEKS! I hope it satisfies! The prompt involved a scene from _Consequentially Yours_, where Ny and I were discussing Oliver finding a pair of socks on the mantle and wondering how they ended up there. I said I could just imagine the scene and she made it my newest prompt for this series.

* * *

Oliver opened the door to his flat at midnight on a Tuesday; tired, dirty and half-starved. Two hours earlier, the captain of his Quidditch team had finally released them from an eighteen hour training session and Oliver wanted nothing more than a bath, a hot meal and his warm bed, though he wasn't too particular about the order in which they came. It was with no little irritation, therefore, that he realized the door would open no more than a hands breadth before bumping into something – something that said _oof_ as the door connected with it.

_What the hell?_

"Oliver?" the something asked as the door suddenly opened fully. He sucked in a breath as his brain registered the sight of bushy brown hair and wary chocolate eyes.

"H-Hermione?" he stuttered stupidly, at a loss to explain her presence in his flat.

"Well, come in," she admonished, pulling him through the open doorway before shutting the door so forcefully that it could only be considered a slam. He absorbed the faint scent in the air; the scent of vanilla and – _broccoli?_ before he noticed the various pieces of wood on the floor next to the front closet.

"A shoe rack," she muttered, almost angrily, he thought.

"Er – Hermione?" he ventured. She looked up at him in encouragement, but the power of those eyes nearly knocked his feet out from under him. "Um – what are you doing here?" he blurted out. It wasn't that he minded her presence, but after the library incident, she had sought him out in his room and her words had echoed hauntingly in his ears these past three months.

She had walked into the room without knocking; he'd just come from the bath and had been towelling his hair, a pair of blue sleep pants the only thing he'd bothered to toss on. He had forgotten to tie the drawstring, and he remembered hoping they'd not slip down his hips too far while she was in there. Her eyes had widened, and he'd have sworn there was a flicker of interest in her eyes before her face shuttered. He'd said her name softly, and she had held up a hand, explaining in a flat, emotionless voice that she was going to try to make things work with Weasley. She'd thanked him for his offer and walked out. He'd not even had a chance to get a word in edgewise.

He'd left the castle a few days later; he'd been called up to training camp, finally. He left her a note with his address and a key to his flat, just in case she should ever have a need of it. She'd sent him several letters since then, and he'd responded to each, but she'd not once mentioned moving into his home. As his exhausted senses took in the room around him, he realized she couldn't have been there long.

"I – I broke up with Ron three days ago – I didn't have anywhere else to go, but I still had your key..." she trailed off, looking down at her feet.

"No – no it's fine, lass – really," he assured her. "You know you're welcome to stay here as long as you like." Oliver looked down as well, noticing the faint pink shimmer of her toes and realized he hadn't seen her feet before. He never had considered himself attracted to feet, but hers were downright pretty. _It's exhaustion talking,_ his brain whispered sensibly.

"You go back to whatever it was you were doing," he said, gesturing at the wooden shoe rack still in pieces on the floor next to her adorable pink toes. "I'm just going to have a quick bite and a shower before bed." He stepped over the mess on the doorstep and she looked up. After an awkward bit of a dancing step to get around one another, he found himself facing the kitchen and she settled herself to the floor.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, looking up distractedly. "There's a quiche in the icebox; I meant to go to the market tomorrow."

"I'll take you around the neighborhood and show you how to get around," he called over his shoulder as he thought delightedly of coming home to real meals, cooked by a pretty girl.

_Quiche,_ he thought, staring at the blackened item on his plate ten minutes later. In those ten minutes, his visions of home-cooked meals had flown out the window. He was no chef, by any means, but he was fairly certain a quiche wasn't hilly on the edges, flat in the center, and full of indistinguishable black lumps that had once been broccoli. Furthermore, he was positive there were eggs in it – but whatever Hermione had put in this concoction, it was certainly no quiche.

_Ah, well, in for a penny, in for a pound_ Oliver thought fatalistically, pushing the first bite past his protesting lips. For a moment he wasn't sure he'd be able to swallow it, but he didn't have to worry about that, at least, for he suddenly heard Hermione's muttering quite clearly in the silence, and the thought of the petite spitfire cursing in any language was enough to make it difficult for him not to spit out his food in shock, but for that cursing to foul enough to make the requisite sailor blush – and in _Welsh_ no less, was too much.

For a moment, he was torn between disgust at the thought of eating food anyone had spit all over, even himself, happiness that he now had an excuse for not eating the disgusting concoction and curiosity as to what brought on this sudden resemblance to an American trucker. Curiosity won out, and he clattered to his feet to see a self-satisfied smirk grace Hermione's face as she glared in triumph at the fully assembled shoe rack. Oliver suddenly thought of Aunt Henny. "Discretion is the greater part of valour."

He thought the old bird might just be right, and he offered Hermione a small acknowledgement of her success, completely neglecting to comment on the wand in her hand – or the many screws and dowels still lying scattered on the rug, though he couldn't help his eyes from roving over them. She followed his gaze and let loose a small laugh.

"Don't say a word, Wood," she threatened, but the humour in her voice belied her words and his deep chuckle accompanied her musical laughter.

"I'm afraid I've rather ruined your dinner, lass," he mumbled in excuse. "Perhaps you'd like to go out and get something?"

"No, there's some Chinese take-away left over from last night, but you're more than welcome to it," she offered, and his eyes lit up. "I'm going to read for a bit."

It was amazing how his mood could change so drastically in a mere half an hour, he mused. He was sitting in his favorite chair, completely comfortable, with his feet propped up on his battered coffee table, a copy of that morning's _Prophet_ spread out on his lap and a blazing fire from the hearth behind him taking the chill out of the air. He still needed that bath, but he figured he'd get there eventually. Hermione had gone to bed before he'd finished eating, and just knowing that she was in the other room, her whiskey-brown curls spread over his pillow, was enough to bring a smile to his face. He enjoyed his position for several minutes before something distracted him.

_What is that awful smell?_ He sniffed the air; there was a sour odour wafting towards him, and he was determined to place it. Bad enough that she'd shown up at his flat when he hadn't cleaned in several weeks, but that the place smelled so disgusting was an untenable thought. He put the paper down and walked around the room, but he was unable to pinpoint where the scent was coming from. He resumed his earlier position, enjoying the sheer pleasure in having his feet up, when he realized where the smell was coming from.

Bringing his right foot to his face cautiously, he caught a stronger whiff of the offensive odour, and realized suddenly that it was his own feet. Mentally shrugging, he pulled off his socks and tossed them over his shoulder; what else could he expect after eighteen hours of practice? A strangled sound alerted him to the presence across the room, and he raised his face to meet horrified brown eyes.

"What?" he asked, wondering if the rest of him smelled as badly as his socks.

"So that's how they get up there," she said, staring at a point over his head. He turned around in the chair and realized that his socks had landed upon the mantle. He felt heat suffuse his face and he ducked his head, standing up and crossing to the mantle to pick up the socks and put them in his training bag. The team had a laundress, who would take care of them when he returned to camp later in the week. He looked up and realized she was still staring at him in horrified wonder.

"I think I'll just go have that bath now," he muttered. He ambled into the bathroom, daring a glance over his shoulder, where she seemed to be rooted to the spot, though her eyes appeared to be directed at his bag. He sighed and closed the door behind himself.

After a very hot bath he found himself on his rather lumpy sofa, shifting uncomfortably to try to find a spot that didn't poke him in the kidneys. He was definitely buying a new sofa while they were out shopping in the morning; that was all there was to it.

The mostly sleepless night passed incredibly slowly to his mind, and when the sun rose, he turned, bleary-eyed, to the coffee-machine, hoping that the caffeine would help take some of the sleepiness out of his brain. A soft shuffling was the only warning he had before Hermione walked into the room, her own eyes a bit red, though whether that was from tears over her current situation or just sleep he couldn't tell.

"Mornin'," he mumbled, pouring himself a large mug full of the steaming black liquid before remembering that he had a guest and offering it to her instead.

"No thank you; I prefer tea," she explained, pulling a small kettle from the cabinet and setting it upon the stove top.

"I was thinking that I should do some other shopping this morning as well. D'you want to join me?" he asked. She merely nodded and sat across the small table from him in silence until the kettle whistled. As she bustled around, making tea, Oliver thought disparagingly of the sofa, realizing that much of his furniture was in the same sorry state. In fact, as he thought of his bedroom, he suddenly remembered why he spent so much time in the dorms at his training camp; his bed was nearly as uncomfortable as the sofa. The coffee finally started to kick in and he felt his eyes open fully, some of the clouds parting in his brain.

"How did you sleep?" he asked his companion.

"Er – fine, thank you," she stumbled over the words, and he couldn't resist a laugh.

"You don't have to lie to me, lass. I was just thinking that I should probably pick up some new furniture today while we're out." He carefully considered his next words before speaking. "I was wondering if you'd like to help me pick it out?"

"Of course. I've got an interview with the Ministry tomorrow, but today is empty," she said, stifling a yawn.

"C'mon, lass, get dressed. We need to get you a decent bed so you can get some sleep tonight," he laughed.

Two hours later, having already shopped for food and dropped it off back at the flat, he and Hermione stood in a furniture shop, staring in wonder at a leopard sofa.

"Do you think someone would actually _buy_ that?" he asked, incredulous, turning to the girl beside him with a flush of sheer happiness.

"I am sure someone would," she answered primly, but he could see the doubt in her eyes.

"Ah, c'mon, Hermione; you know that no one with any sense at all would buy that god-awful thing!" He was rewarded with her deep, throaty laugh. He turned and saw the perfect sofa. Grabbing Hermione's hand, he pulled her over to it.

It was long and deep, plush without being fussy, and the butter-soft leather was the same shade of whiskey-brown as Hermione's curls. He sat down and immediately felt his body relax. He patted the seat beside him and stretched his arms along the back, smiling when she joined him. The back was the perfect height; her head rested ever so slightly on the crook of his elbow and he fought the urge to bend his arm and pull her closer.

She stood suddenly, and he was pleased to note a slight flush to her cheeks. "You're right, Wood, this is definitely your perfect sofa."

"What do you think of these tables?" He pointed to the rich mahogany accessories positioned around the sofa.

"They go well with the set; are you going to get them all?" She had wandered closer to the matching chair, and he had a sudden vision of her in her dressing gown, curled up in the chair with a book. He nodded, swallowing at the image.

"You'll need a rug to go with it," she suggested.

"Why don't you pick that out? I know nothing about rugs," he said. She led him to the back of the store, where a large selection of area rugs stood.

"You should pick it out yourself, Wood; it's your flat, after all," she urged, flipping through the designs. He reached for her hand and slowly spun her to face him.

"Hermione, you live there, too; it's our flat now," he said seriously, looking down into her chocolate eyes. She ducked her head and turned back towards the rugs, pointing at the one she'd stopped at.

"That one, then."

"Okay," he agreed. "Now, we need to get you a decent bed." It was his turn to drag her across the store, stopping in front of a display model. It had high wooden posts with rails across the top. Drifting from the rails were sheer panels of white and pale blue, pooling slightly as they reached the floor. Oliver fought the image of her lying between the striped sheets, her hair spread across the pillows in a cloud. When his vision cleared, he looked for her, but she was standing some distance away next to the plainest, most boring bed he'd ever seen in his life.

"Hermione, how about this one?" he called, pointing at the blue and white dream.

"Oliver! It's too much," she said, coming to stand next to him.

"Not at all, lass," he denied. "It's a very pretty bed, and I won't have any other."

"You're being far too extravagant, you know," she laughed. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that he'd buy her the moon if it would make her laugh at him that way when a salesperson, smelling a large commission, sidled up to them.

"You simply must try it out," the woman gushed, grabbing them by the arm and dragging them closer. Oliver gave up resisting when she pushed him backwards on the bed and pulled Hermione to the other side, doing the same to her. For a moment he simply savoured the feeling of lying this close to her, breathing in the subtle scent of vanilla and cinnamon.

"This is _the_ bed for newlyweds," the woman continued. "The curtains practically _scream_ romance. And isn't it divinely comfortable?" She didn't give them space to answer, merely continued in her nasal voice. "I noticed you looking at the chocolate leather living room set, too. It's absolutely perfect. Are you outfitting your first home?"

Hermione started to stutter a negative, but Oliver stepped in quickly. "Not exactly. We're redecorating my flat," he hedged. The saleswoman merely nodded, as if she got that answer all the time, and gestured for them to get up, which Hermione did gratefully. Oliver followed suit, mentally groaning at the thought of the nasal voice droning on during his day with Hermione. Thinking fast, he came up with what he hoped was an acceptable compromise.

"Ma'am, I'll make you a deal," he said, leaning down to whisper in her ear. "Leave us alone and I'll pay full retail for everything we buy today." He could see the wheels spinning in the woman's mind as she frantically calculated the commission on just the two rooms they'd looked at so far, before she nodded, licking her lips in anticipation. She walked back to the counter and Oliver grabbed Hermione's hand and led her over to the kitchen section.

"We're buying that bed," he informed her. "What did you think of the sheets?"

"The bedding was lovely," she murmured. "Oliver, are you sure you want to spend so much?"

"I can afford it, if that is what you're worried about," he chuckled. "The team pays me extremely well, and I've been meaning to get the place spruced up anyway. You coming to stay with me has just been the kick in the rear I needed to do it."

"If you're sure, then I can't really argue, I suppose," she sighed.

"Hermione, lass, I'd spend twice that to make you feel comfortable and welcome in my home," he whispered softly, brushing a curl off her cheek. Her hand fluttered up to still his, and he flattened his palm against her face. Her eyes widened and he dropped his hand to his side.

"Come on, lass; let's go outfit the kitchen." His voice was gruff, and he dropped her hand, trusting that he hadn't blown it badly enough for her to refuse to follow him. He sighed inwardly in relief as she followed him across the store.

"What color do you think?" he asked her.

"Oliver, it's your flat – you should pick the color," she repeated.

"Hermione, it's our flat – I want you to feel at home," he mocked, shooting her a teasing glance.

She teasingly heaved a large sigh before pointing to the black brushed-steel set. "Those. They'll go with anything."

Two hours and several thousand pounds later, they found themselves back in the flat, sitting down with more Chinese take away and an old film on the telly.

_No, I don't think I will kiss you, although you need kissing, badly. That's what's wrong with you. You should be kissed, and often, and by someone who knows how._

Oliver spluttered. "What the bloody hell are you forcing me to watch, lass?" Her laughter made him smile. "'You should be kissed, and often, and by someone who knows how,' eh?" he mocked.

"It's _Gone with the Wind_, Wood. Surely you've seen it?" Her tone was incredulous.

"Well, it wasn't exactly common in the Wood household to spend an evening watching the telly, being as my entire family thinks that Muggle contraptions are the work of evil." He snorted as he said the last, thinking of how ashamed his mother would be if she could see him watching the television and eating Chinese food.

"Oh, how sad. It's wonderful," she sighed. "It was always one of my favorites."

"So, does this Rhett-bloke say more of that nonsense?" Oliver joked. "Because I think my manhood might suffer from too much of this."

"I'm sure your manhood will be fine, Oliver. My father watched this with my mother and I all the time and it never seemed to bother him," she sniffed.

Oliver sighed in contentment. He had his dream girl sitting next to him and a house full of new furniture being delivered the next day. He wasn't due back at his training camp for another three days. He'd have to say, if asked, that his life was just about perfect.

**Chapter End Notes:**  
This is probably the fluffiest thing I've ever written in my life.


	5. The Death of All Hope

**T****itle**: The Death of All Hope  
**Summary**: After a year of living together platonically, Hermione makes an announcement that tears Oliver apart.  
**Rating**: R  
**Author's Notes**: I'm in a rather melancholic mood tonight, and though this isn't how this little piece was supposed to turn out, I'm still rather pleased with it nonetheless. The title is a play on 'The Sum of All Fears', and the prompt I used this time around is a rather famous quote (which I merely reworded) "If I love you, what business is it of yours?"

* * *

"I'll be gone about two months," Oliver explained, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Hermione watched its progress, nodding thoughtfully, and he took the moment to admire her unobserved.

"And you have to leave tonight?" she mumbled.

"Well, as comfortable as that new sofa is, lass, I'll admit to looking forward to my hard bed back at camp - at least I can stretch out fully on it," he teased, but still she did not meet his eyes.

"I - can you stay a bit longer?" she asked hesitantly. "I've got something I need to talk to you about." He dropped his bag instantly and the resultant thud startled her into a strangled squeak. He wrapped her against his side and led her to the sofa, where he settled her into the crook of his arm.

"Now, what's on your mind?"

She took a deep breath and stared at the blank television. "I won't be here when you get back, Oliver," she began, her voice slightly breathy. "I've been with the Ministry long enough to have a quite substantial savings - more than I should, since you've not let me pay for anything since I moved in." Her tone turned humorous and she smiled at him briefly.

"I've taken advantage of your kindness far long enough," she said as she steeled herself for what he knew must be coming. "I've found my own flat, not far from here. We can still have our film nights when you're home - but it's time I took care of myself."

Oliver struggled to keep still - her words struck him hard, and he had to fight to keep from doubling over and letting loose an almighty howl at the pain. Things had been going so well to his mind. This two month trip to try out for the Scottish National Team was supposed to show her just how much she'd miss his bi-weekly visits home; it was going to be his opening to tell her, at long last, how he felt and to prove to her that she could feel the same way if she'd but give him a chance to show her.

He wanted to laugh bitterly at her comment on their ritual. To be sure, their film nights were the highlight of his haphazard existence - not even the chance to play in the Cup excited him so much as sharing a bowl of popcorn with her, his arm around her shoulders while she cuddled under it. Countless nights she'd fallen asleep against his chest and he'd relished the opportunity to pick her up and carry her off to her bed. After the first few nights she'd stopped protesting and merely snuggled into his arms. He would lay her don and help her settle herself under the covers; more often than not he'd end up sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand tangled in those silky whisky-colored curls and the other clasped in hers as he fought the urge to lean down and kiss her.

And she was taking that away from him.

He sat in silence and let his new reality wash over him. No Hermione to welcome him home with a hug and the latest news. No books on the coffee table, the pink and silver markers sticking out while Crookshanks batted at the tassels. No flowery scent lingering in the shower after her morning ablutions, nor candles burning on the mantle, lacing the air with their crisp apple-cinnamon smell, nor burnt foods he'd try heroically to eat. All of the reasons he bothered to come home at all - gone.

An empty flat, an empty bed - an empty life.

He realized he'd been quiet for far too long, but he couldn't think of anything to say. There was a lump in his throat and he was terribly afraid he would begin to cry if he tried to open his mouth.

"Oliver, say something," she whispered, having the nerve to sound tortured. Words wouldn't come and he could feel her eyes boring into him. He was suddenly angry. She was tearing his life to pieces and she wanted him to say something? His head spun around to face her and she recoiled from the obvious fury in his face. His arm locked tighter around her waist and his other hand moved of its own volition to plunge itself into the mass of curls at the base of her neck.

Some remote part of his brain registered that she wasn't fighting him, that she had actually leaned in - that her eyes had fluttered closed and those beautiful sooty lashes were resting on her creamy cheeks. The rest of him was merely reveling in the feel of her in his arms before he lowered his mouth to hers with inexorable slowness and lost himself in the feel of her lips under his.

Without warning, those perfect lips parted slightly and he stifled a groan as he took the kiss deeper. He felt her arms come around him, one hand fisting into his robes and his heart soared. For a year he'd resisted doing this, afraid she'd scream - or worse, curse him into oblivion. He'd never once dared to hope that she'd be so responsive. Her fingers were fumbling at the ties on his chest; he could feel the fluttering touches burning against his skin as she pulled her mouth away to focus on the task of unlacing his robes.

He turned his attention to her neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the smooth column of her throat, nipping at the base. Her moan, so much sexier than his best dreams, brought him to his senses.

"Hermione?" he said, not quite sure what he was actually asking.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Wood, don't stop NOW!" she exclaimed, exasperated. "Surely six months is more than enough time for me know my own mind." He raised startled eyes to hers, and saw they were glittering with amusement and barely concealed lust.

"What?" she demanded. "You didn't think I was awake enough all those nights to know what you were doing?"

"Wha - what?" he stammered. She let loose a deep, husky laugh and he felt his control begin to unravel.

"I thought you'd never make a move, so I decided to force your hand a little," she explained with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "I figured if I pretended I was moving out you would either confess what you felt or you wouldn't - and if you didn't I would have two months to figure out another way to keep you."

"You're not leaving?" he asked, drawing in a breath.

"No," she laughed. "I'm not leaving - unless, of course, you want me to?"

"You mean…" he trailed off.

"I mean this: I love having you as a friend, Oliver. You really are the best friend I've ever had, but I want more than just your friendship," she said, rolling her eyes.

Oliver felt like his chest would explode and he realized he was still holding his breath. He took in everything - he wanted to remember every detail about this moment: the flickering of the candle on the mantle; the reflection of her wrapped in his arms in the television; the picture of the two of them, arms slung round one another after one of his matches that she'd come to see that hung upon the wall, the two figures in it looking happily at each other; the naked lust bordered by amusement in her chocolate eyes. He wanted to cherish this memory in vivid detail, but that look made it nearly impossible to keep from closing his eyes and resuming their kiss.

His hands began roving across her back of their own free will and he nearly groaned at the softness of her skin under the pink flannel pajama top she wore. He deftly slipped one arm under her knees and picked her up with a skill born of many nights' practice.

"Oliver, what are you doing?" she asked, looking up at him curiously.

"Hermione-lass, I'll not be doing this on the bluidy sofa," he growled as he carried her towards the bedroom. "If this is going to happen, and not just in my dreams, then it'll be done properly, in the bed I bought for this purpose."

"Oh, stuff!" she laughed. "You didn't buy the bed for that! You bought that bed over a year ago…" she trailed off, realizing there was no humor in his eyes.

"A year?" she asked quietly, looking steadily into his face. "You've wanted me for a year?"

"Longer," he said simply, terrified to say just how long and praying she would not ask.

"How much longer?" _Damn._ "Oliver, how. Much. Longer?" her voice was deadly as he laid her upon the bed. He joined her, turning on his side to face her, letting her read the truth in his eyes.

"Since you were but a wee lass of fourteen," he confessed.. He lowered his eyelids, pretending to close his eyes as he watched her face hungrily for her response. She turned pensive and the fire he'd relished just moments before went out.

"That's why…" she whispered. "I always wondered why you offered to let me move in here - we weren't very close - we barely even knew one another, and there you were, suddenly offering me a way out of a difficult situation. I should have known you had some ulterior motive!" she exclaimed, dashing the tears away from her eyes.

"No, Hermione, no," he denied earnestly. "I knew that you'd never want to be more than friendly with me, but I was so in love with you that I didn't care how you felt about me if it meant I'd be able to see you whenever I wanted to."

"Love?" she squeaked. "Who said anything about love?"

_Double damn._ He said nothing.

"Oliver, answer me!" she demanded and he felt himself growing angry again. What right had she to demand he tell her how he felt about her?

"What business of yours is it if I love you?" he shot angrily. "They're my feelings! I shouldn't have to tell you about them so that you can throw them back in my face and laugh!"

"I would never laugh at you, Oliver, but don't you think I had the right to know that all this time, when I considered you to be the best friend I've ever had, you were in love with me?" she asked rationally.

"No, lass, that I don't," he argued. "You say I was your best friend - well who better than that to be in love with you?" He stood up and shook his head. "It isn't my feelings that matter here, Hermione, and it never has been. I've known my own mind and heart since I was eighteen. Now it's your turn to figure out what is in your own."

"What do you mean?" she asked, following him as he strode out of the room.

"Now that it's come to the point," he explained, picking his bag up from the floor, "I find that I'll not be content with the scraps of your affection. I want it all, Hermione-lass. If you can't give me that, then I'll continue to be the best friend you want me to be, but it will be one or the other, lass. I'll not be taking anything in-between."

"So you're going to issue an ultimatum and go - just like that?" she asked quietly.

"It's not an ultimatum," he said. "I just want you to take the time that I'm gone to figure out what it is that you want from me. I know what I want, and I'll not settle for anything less than it, so you need to know if that is what you want."

"I won't be here when you get back, Oliver," she said calmly, staring at him. "You aren't who I thought you were at all."

He fought the tears that threatened with her words. He would be her friend until the day he died, but he didn't want a casually intimate relationship with her, and she was too damned stubborn to realize what it was he was trying to say, he knew.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," he answered. "Good-bye then, Hermione. I'm thinking there won't be any need for me to be contacting you when I get back. I wish you nothing but happiness." He left the flat before she could answer, and if his eyes were a bit moist when he Apparated to his dorm in the training camp, he could easily blame it on the rushing sensation that came from that particular form of travel.


	6. Love Should End With Hope

**Title:** Love Should End With Hope  
**Summary:** Once more, Oliver doesn't get what he expects when he comes home.  
**Rating:** PG  
**Author's Notes:** It's not quite the end. I meant it to be, I really did. And it seems like it is, but there are a few loose ends to still tie up. The prompt for this one was a line from _A Knight's Tale_. "Love should end with hope. My husband, god rest him, said something that I'll never forget. Hope guides me, that is what gets me through the day and the night. The hope that after you're gone from my sight, it will not be the last time that I look upon you.

* * *

A once burly young Scot pushed through his front door, dropping his bag with a small clatter. In the morning, he'd find out what he'd smashed, but for tonight, he just wanted sleep. It had been a long two months since he was last home, the stench of defeat covering him like a cloak as he'd run from her rejection. Oliver Wood was not a man to take defeat lightly, and when he wasn't training, he was replaying that final evening in his head, searching desperately for a way to change the outcome.

In the end, he decided that if he'd only kept his fool mouth shut and let her have her way, he'd be coming home to a warm and smiling Hermione instead of a cold, dark flat. As he wove through the maze of the living room, he left the lights off, habit taking over. He'd always tried to be considerate of his flatmate when coming home late at night, and the thought that he could turn on a light, and thereby save his shins, was too depressing to contemplate. What did it matter if his legs didn't sport bruises in the morning? She was gone.

The idea of crawling into the bed she'd slept in for over a year, a bed he'd nearly been able to share with her made his skin shrivel. He just couldn't do it. He'd have to move. He'd been debating the idea with himself for the past month; the sentimental part of him, the part he tried so desperately to squash, wanted to stay forever in the place where they'd been so happy, but the logical part of his brain admitted that he'd never be able to move on if he wallowed in memories of her for the rest of his life.

He ignored the dark bedroom, the door tauntingly open across the room, visible in the dimness as his eyes adjusted. When Hermione had lived in that room, it was always closed at night to give him the illusion of privacy in the common living areas and to help him prevent from waking her. The open door seemed to accuse him of driving him off and he resolutely turned his back on it.

He stripped to his boxers and stretched his large frame, now rather gaunt and haggard-looking, down upon the sofa. Pillowing his head on his arms, he rolled to his side and closed his eyes. The now-familiar sting of tears pricked at him, but he resolutely squeezed them closed and forced back the lump. It was three in the morning and he was exhausted. He simply didn't have time to grieve for his lost love.

He finally drifted off, troubled by fitful dreams throughout what remained of the night, waking several times. Each time, he refused to allow himself to give into the fantasy that he was in that bed he'd bought for her, lying next to her, with her whiskey-colored curls draped riotously across his arm and her head on his chest, that he could hear her deep, even breath with the slightest bit of a snore that she had resolutely refused to believe was there when he'd once commented upon it. That he was so far gone that he could actually hear it forced him to put a pillow over his head and try not to smother himself in frustration.

He woke again when the first rays of the dawn crept into the room and he groaned. Sleep warred with idealism, and he was forcefully tempted to crawl into that bed that probably still smelled of her and go back to sleep.

_And, for Merlin's sake, man, why did you have to think of her scent?_ he grumbled to his mind. Now that he'd brought it to mind, all he could smell was the sweet vanilla and cinnamon that seemed to accompany her wherever she went. He groggily opened his eyes, blinking and squinting against the brightness of the sun when he noticed the whiskey curls it was filtering through.

He closed his eyes. He was definitely in bad shape if merely being home was giving him hallucinations.

"Oliver, I know you're awake."

Now he was having auditory hallucinations, too. He groaned and rolled to face the back of the sofa. "Go away. You're a bloody figment of my imagination and I've enough to worry about without seeing your face every-bloody-where I go."

"Now, is that anyway to greet a woman who has breakfast all prepared for you?" the tone was teasing, but he heard hesitance in it, and it was that which convinced him. In his dreams, she was always bold, confident, and (given the fact that she was a horrid cook) they never ate anything she made.

"Hermione?" he whispered, turning slowly and opening his eyes. They collided with deep brown pools which spoke of uncertainty. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, obviously you need a new shoe rack, seeing as how you've destroyed the one I made," she teased. "I've come to repair it, of course." It took him a moment to register her comment, but when he recalled the crash his bag had made the night before, he couldn't help but grin. "Now, sit up and eat, and then we can talk." He obeyed her in sitting, but he looked somewhat askance at the meal she placed in front of him.

"You mustn't have eaten a thing while you were away," she prattled. "You're skin and bones." He glanced from the food up to her as she busied herself about the room and noticed that this Hermione was much thinner than the girl he remembered and there were dark circles under her eyes. She glared at him. "Eat! I didn't make it, so it is perfectly safe!"

Eyeing the food with more enthusiasm than he'd felt in two months, he dug into the plate with gusto, polishing off the meal in no time as she rambled through her thoughts. "I didn't expect you to be back last night," she murmured. "Imagine my surprise when I woke up and there you were! I've been leaving the door open on purpose to hear you when you came in, but I was so tired last night – _Gone with the Wind_ was on again and I stayed up far too late watching it."

"Hermione, lass, what are you doing here?" he asked again, more forcefully.

"I – I never left." Her eyes were downcast, but he saw a faint blush stain her cheeks at the admission. "I was so mad when you left that I packed up all my things – I've been living out of my suitcase for the past two months, by-the-by. I kept expecting you to show up and demand I leave at once."

"Why didn't you leave?" he asked curiously.

"I calmed down considerably the next day, and I started thinking about what you'd said – and - and I agree with you." She took a deep breath and looked up, her eyes fixing on his. "I don't want just your friendship, Oliver, and I don't want just a tumble between the sheets, either." She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and he felt as though a warm spring had bubbled into his veins. He was fairly certain his jaw was on the floor, but he didn't care. She was here and she wasn't leaving and she – she agreed with him?

"Agree with me?" He raised his eyebrows. "Is that how you tell a man you love him, lass?"

"No, of course not!" she declared indignantly before launching herself across the coffee table and into his lap, plastering her mouth to his.

She tasted of honey and vanilla and everything he remembered and he was drowning in it. "This is how," she said, pulling away. "I love you."

His heart swelled. The rest of it didn't matter, not really, he decided. They'd work it out. For right now, there were more important things to be working out. The knots in her hair when they finally made it off the sofa and into the bathroom, for example.


End file.
